


A Visit to the Country

by Stayawhile



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stayawhile/pseuds/Stayawhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/148480/chapters/212754">Worlds Apart,</a> Miles issued an invitation.  Gregor takes him up on his offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Visit to the Country

“Miles, you’re insane.” Ivan shook his head. “Of all your goofy ideas over the years, this one…well, it’s probably in the top ten.”

Miles just grinned. “Hey, it was his idea, not mine.” Ivan snorted. “Okay, it was _originally_ my idea, but he really wants to do it. And why not?”

Ivan swallowed the last of his wine. “Well, to start with, Silvy Vale is the back end of nowhere, and the inhabitants are not exactly--”

“Not. Exactly. What?” Miles’ voice took on a darker, sharper tone. “I’ve met the people of Silvy Vale, and they are citizens of the Imperium and Gregor’s subjects, same as you. I daresay they’ve got more character than a lot of these town clowns you waste your time with.”

“All right, all right.” Ivan put up his hands in a placating gesture. “No insult meant. But I just can’t picture it. It sounds enormously uncomfortable for everyone involved, and that includes the good folk of the Dendarii hills.”

Miles sighed, looking around the small dining room and the remains of dinner before them. Family meals, even in the Vorkosigans’ country retreat in Vorkosigan Surleau, were taken in a room larger than most family homes in Silvy Vale. He twirled a crystal goblet between his hands, wondering whether it had cost as much or more than the average man earned in a month, up in the hills. “Yeah, that’s a worry. I’m afraid they’ll be intimidated as much as honored, but it’ll be worse if we announce it ahead of time. Once they meet him, I think it will be fine.”

“You hope. Well, it’ll be a change from parties at the Imperial Residence, anyway.”

“That’s the idea.”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Armsman Jamison was not happy.

The Emperor’s safety was his job, and he had to admit, the man usually made it fairly easy. They had their plans and expectations worked out, and the regular visits to Vorkosigan Surleau had become routine. He liked working with the Vorkosigan Armsmen; Pym was a good man, solid and reliable. But this—this lunatic idea had to have come from Lord Auditor Vorkosigan. Just the four of them, in a lightflyer, banking over the mountains, settling down in a field in the middle of nowhere, in one of those half-civilized towns full of half-civilized hillmen…

Still, he had to admit it was pretty. No, beautiful. Too wild and dramatic to be pretty: soaring peaks and valleys, patterns of green Earth-descended trees blending into native Barrayaran foliage in shades of red-brown. Remote didn’t begin to describe it, but Pym seemed to know where they were going.

The Emperor seemed fascinated, staring out the window at the crags and deep valleys. “This is where your grandfather drove the Cetagandan Empire to its knees. It’s amazing how little it’s changed over the years.”

“Oh, it’s changed,” said Lord Vorkosigan. “Not as fast as the rest of Barrayar, but the process is ongoing. These folk are poor, but give them a little opportunity and they learn fast.”

Pym set the lightflyer down gently in a clearing. As they emerged, a young man came into sight on the porch of the nearby cabin, smiling. “My Lord, you should have warned us! Although it’s always a pleasure to see….” He slowed, then stopped, staring at the slender, darkhaired man beside Lord Vorkosigan.

Miles grinned. “Emperor Gregor, may I present Zed Karal of Silvy Vale. Zed, meet Gregor Vorbarra, Emperor of Barrayar.”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Marla, Zed’s wife, was small and pretty, not yet aged by the hard work of rural life, and less flustered than her husband by their distinguished visitors. “It’s a great honor and a pleasure, Sire,” she said, making a curtsey. “Um, won’t you come and sit down, I’ll make some tea.” At her whispered instruction, Zed went back into the house and returned with the largest chair, which she wiped carefully with her apron before gesturing Gregor toward it. Pym and Jamison took up parade-rest positions at either end of the porch.

“Is there a…reason for your visit?” Zed asked cautiously. “We’d no word you were coming.” Gregor gave a reassuring smile.

“Silvy Vale is as much a part of Our realm as Sergyar or Komarr, and it seemed to me that I should see it. Lord Vorkosigan here tells me you’ve made great strides. I was rather hoping for a tour of the place, and to hear what the people here think of Our government.”

Marla Karal bustled out of the house with a tray; covered with a clean cloth, it held a teapot and four cups, three of which matched the teapot, and a loaf of bread. “Today was baking day, so the bread’s good and fresh, and the brillberry jam’s as fine as you’ll get anywhere.” She nudged her husband with an elbow. “Zed, why don’t you go fetch Speaker Csurik, and let folk know we’ve important guests to entertain. When they’ve had a bit of tea, we can show them the school and the clinic.” She stopped. “I mean…if that’s what you wish, sirs.”

Zed smiled nervously. “Marla, she tends to take charge of things.”

“An excellent quality in a woman. I see you’ve married well, Zed,” said Miles. “Sire, if it pleases you, I endorse both Madam Karal’s plan and her brillberry jam.”

Gregor grinned. “Indeed. I will enjoy the view from your porch for the moment, and look forward to seeing the rest of Silvy Vale.”

At a glance from Marla, Zed left the porch and started across the yard at a sprint, then turned back, made an awkward bow, and ran up the trail.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Miles was feeling relieved, and just a bit smug. Like Zed and Marla, the locals had divided into two camps with regard to the Emperor’s visit. Some were clearly nervous and overawed, but others had succumbed to Gregor’s efforts at casual friendliness and were doing their best to respond in kind. The very old and the very young, those who had experienced the least contact with the world outside Silvy Vale, seemed best able to see beyond Gregor’s Imperial rank.

The tour of the clinic had been a great success. Gregor’s calm interest in the medical problems facing Dendarii communities had gone a long way toward curing Dr. Tergev’s nervous stammer, but the highlight had come at the bedside of the lone inpatient, an ancient veteran being treated for a chronic lung problem. The old man had, with great exertion and no small amount of grunting, gotten out of his bed to formally salute his Emperor.

“It’s good to see you again, Sire,” the old man wheezed.

“Did you serve in the capital, Sergeant?” asked Gregor politely.

“No, no, no…” They waited through a bout of coughing for him to continue. “Last I saw you, you was five years old. You and this one’s” he waved at Miles, “Lady mother was up the mountains, hiding out. Vordar—” more coughing. “Vordarian’s War. My wife baked you some gingerbread.”

“Gingerbread…” Gregor had a faraway look in his eyes. “To be honest, I only remember parts of that trip. But I do recall gingerbread. It was wrapped in a red bandanna.” He straightened his spine. “I owe you and your good lady thanks. Is she here?”

“Oh, she’s long gone.” The old man paused. “That was a ways from here. You’ve grown up good and strong, done well for us. And this little Lord, he’s done well for us too, better’n anyone here thought he might.”

“Well, Miles has a habit of surprising people.”

Dr. Turgev moved toward the old man’s side. “Bazon, you need to lie down, now.” But the old man shook his head and remained upright. Gregor came to attention and gave a solemn, formal salute.

“Sergeant Dervensksy. You have Our Imperial gratitude for your years of service and your loyalty to Barrayar.” The lieutenant returned the salute with a shaky hand. “Now stand down, and follow your doctor’s orders.”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

An hour later, Gregor was sitting on the teacher’s worktable at the front of the Raina Csurik School’s larger classroom, his casual posture contrasting with the official portrait behind him, leading a spirited class discussion on Barrayaran history. The class had begun by peppering him with questions about the Empress, led by the older girls, who had memorized every detail of the Imperial wedding from the vid-reports. Gregor had eventually turned the conversation to the role of Vorksigan’s district in the defeat of the Cetagandan invasion, which had produced a flood of family stories about local guerilla actions. Probably at least half true, Miles mused, the heroics exaggerated, the usual screwups of any combat engagement edited out. Harra Csurik stood in the doorway, watching her students with pride. She caught Miles’ eye, and cocked her head toward the door in invitation. All eyes were on Gregor, and Miles was unnoticed as he left the room.

Harra stood on the porch, arms folded across her chest. “My lord, with all due respect, if it wouldn’t cause those Armsmen of yours to make a fuss, I’d wallop you.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “Would you mind telling me why?”

“Why didn’t you give us a bit of warning?” she continued. “A day or two to spruce the place up, get something suitable ready for the Emperor? Not that he seems to expect it, but things should be done right and proper.” She ran her hands over her hips. “Here’s me in my second-best dress!”

Miles looked out over the yard in front of the school, where trestle tables had been set up and earnest wives were already setting out platters of food. “There isn’t a thing about Silvy Vale, on an ordinary day, that isn’t right and proper enough for the Emperor, Harra. He wanted to see what this place is like for real, not in its Sunday best with a fresh coat of paint.”

“Well, you’ve seen us at our worst, little man.” She snorted. “I suppose you told him that story?”

Miles looked up at her, remembering the thin, weeping, determined woman he had met at Vorkosigan Surleau. “I did, Harra. I told him all the stories I know about this place: how you went to the Teacher’s College in Hassadar, how everyone worked together to build the hydroelectric dam and the clinic, and that boy you told me about, the one planning to apply to the Imperial Military Academy. And I told him how the Raina Csurik School got its name, and what it represents.”

One of the women came up to them. “Harra, where should…oh, excuse me, my lord!” She made an awkward curtsey, to which he returned a small bow and gestured her to continue. “Harra, where should the musicians set up? And Klem says he’s bringing up his best batch of maple mead, but that’s not suitable for the Emperor, is it?”

“I see you’ve work to do, so I’ll leave you to it,” said Miles. “But as for the mead, I have particularly recommended it to Emperor Gregor, so tell Klem to bring his best. I’ll certainly have some.” He relaxed against the porch railing, watching the swirl of preparations and feeling a strong sense of pride in his District.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Gregor leaned back in the large, carved wooden chair which had been carried from one of the houses for him, wondering how many of his meals had been diplomatic banquets, taken not for sustenance but to promote a political point or cement alliances. A third, maybe? Although he had been as closely observed at this one as at any state dinner, he had found himself relaxing.

Maybe it was the maple mead.

It was potent stuff, but he figured he had probably eaten enough to neutralize the effect. It was clear that the women were watching his every bite, and he had made certain to taste and visibly enjoy a small amount of each dish he was offered. He hadn’t had to feign pleasure, since the food had been simple, hearty and satisfying. It sounded as if the musicians were tuning up. Twilight was falling over the hills, the sky deepening to a rich indigo studded with sparks. Men and women were setting up lanterns on poles, and some of the tables were being carried away, the benches being moved back to form a rough square of hard-packed earth in front of the Emperor’s table.

Miles appeared at his side. “Now would be a good time, Sire.”

“For what?”

“To make the speech they’re all expecting. I strongly recommend you do it before you have any more maple mead.” Miles grinned, raising a glass. “Pride of Vorkosigan’s District, not to mention its secret weapon.”

“Amazing stuff. Amazing place, for that matter. They do so much with so little, here.” Gregor waved a hand.

“Don’t tell me, tell them.” Miles climbed on his chair and clapped his hands loudly, and the crowd quieted. Gregor stood.

“People of Silvy Vale, I thank you for your hospitality. When Lord Vorkosigan invited me to visit your community, I was intrigued to meet the people who had done so much to keep my realm free from Cetagandan invaders. Now that I have been here, my respect and admiration has grown. Your resources may be limited, but your hard work, your courage and your loyalty make me proud to be your Emperor. I can only hope my rule is as worthy of your respect.” He raised his glass of maple mead. “To Silvy Vale!”

The cheers lasted several minutes, clearly showing that Gregor was not the only one enjoying the mead. It finally subsided when Lem Csurik clapped his hands over his head several times, and Harra and the other women began making 'shhh' sounds which spread through the crowd and diminished to silence.

“Sire.” Lem Csurik began, with a bow. “You do us great honor, with your visit and with your words. Compared to some parts of your realm, Silvy Vale may be a small place, and a poor one. But we stand second to none in our loyalty to the Imperium.” He raised his own glass. “To the Emperor!”

The cheers made the response to Gregor’s toast seem understated. The musicians began to play, a tune Gregor soon recognized as a countrified version of the Imperial March that was played at state events, with some astonishingly skillful fingerwork on the balalaika.

A teenage girl approached the head table, two friends giggling behind her. One of them gave her a slight push forward, and she stumbled, regaining her balance directly across from Gregor.

“Hello, Lena,” said Lem. Miles recognized the girl from that afternoon at the school—an outspoken sort, with a ready laugh and a fair depth of historical knowledge. “Sire, and Lord Vorkosigan. Um.” She took a deep breath. “My friends and I were wondering…if you come back, can you bring the Empress next time? And Lady Vorkosigan?”

Gregor smiled encouragingly. “I don’t know when I will have the opportunity to return, but I am sure Empress Laisa would be very pleased to meet you. And if you ever come to Vorbarr Sultana, perhaps you might visit Our Residence.”

Lena gaped for a moment. “R-r-really?” she said. “I mean, um, thank you, Sire!” She bobbed in something that might have passed for a curtsey, and suddenly turned and ran off, her friends following in a flood of high, shrieking laughter.

The Emperor and his Lord Auditor shared a grin.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Armsman Jamison was tired.

He had been on his feet and alert all day, and had not sampled the maple mead, though he had to admit he’d been well fed. He was grateful that it was Pym’s responsibility to pilot the lightflyer back to Vorkosigan Surleau.

He leaned back in his seat, considering the day. Vorbarra Armsmen were chosen for many skills, discretion not least among them. They lived in the Emperor’s back pocket, as the saying went, spending their working days in close observation of Gregor and those around him. Jamison liked to think that he’d gotten to know his employer pretty well over the past seven years, learned to read the subtleties of mood hidden under the legendary reserve and practiced charm.

Few people, for example, realized just how much Gregor despised parties. He did them well, of course; they were part of his job, and he managed the social milieu of Vorbarr Sultana as deftly as he negotiated interplanetary treaties. Jamison, though, saw the stiffness in his neck and shoulders, the polite false smile that masked utter boredom, the slight tightening of the jaw that signaled anger.

Tonight, on the other hand…well, Jamison had rarely seen him so relaxed outside the company of Empress Laisa, and never in a large group of people he didn’t know well. Maybe it was the maple mead? Or the presence of Lord Vorkosigan, who was one of the few men Gregor genuinely trusted. Jamison didn’t know why; he’d been in ImpSec twenty years, and heard enough to think of Miles Vorkosigan as a fully-charged loose cannon.

The place had surprised him, too. He was a reasonably well-traveled man, having been off-planet as far as Escobar, and he knew enough to discount most stereotypes. Still, he had been ashamed to realize that he had expected less of the Dendarii hill folk. They might not be sophisticated, but they weren’t dumb, and they were generous, despite the obvious challenges of scraping a living from the backcountry. Even more important by Jamison’s lights, they were clearly deeply loyal.

But it was more than loyalty, something different, something he’d only felt among his fellow Vorbarra armsmen. He’d felt akin to these hill folk in a way he didn’t quite understand. Something about the way they behaved toward the Emperor had shifted over the course of the day. Ut wasn’t simply that they respected their Emperor—they liked him. They genuinely liked Gregor, the man, not the Imperial symbol.

His Imperial Majesty was slumped in the lightflyer’s back seat….humming? That had to be the mead. Jamison had often wished the Emperor could lighten up a bit more often. Back in his ImpSec days there had been some stretches of duty, ones he couldn’t talk about, where for months he had never felt safe and among friends. He knew the toll it took. Gregor was never off duty, it seemed, or almost never.

Humming, though? Maybe it’d be worth asking Pym if he could get a few bottles of that mead, to take back to the capital. Wouldn’t mind trying some himself.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harra tucked the quilt around little Piotr, who had finally settled down. School tomorrow was going to be a fair nightmare, what with everyone exhausted, including the teacher. Maybe she’d just make them all write thank-you letters to the Emperor and Lord Vorkosigan. Turn it into an exercise in spelling and grammar…

Lem, surprisingly, was still awake. He slipped an arm around her shoulders as she lay down beside him, and she nestled into his warmth, reflecting again that she owed her marriage to the odd little ‘mutie lord.’

“Lord Vorkosigan looks well,” Lem remarked. “Marriage agrees with him, I think.”

“Aye,” she agreed. “Last time he came up, he was in a bad way. Now he’s got work he loves, and a woman who takes care of him. What else does a man need?”

"Nothing at all," said Lem, and she could hear the affection in his voice.

“I still can’t believe he brought the Emperor up here, and never a word of warning. Never know what to expect with that one. I'm not sure I envy his lady.”

“She’s not likely to be bored, that’s sure,” Lem replied.

“I think we gave the Emperor a good welcome, for all the lack of notice. He seems…a good fellow,” Harra said. “I’d always thought him a stiff stick, but I guess that’s the difference between meeting a man and seeing him on the vid.”

They lay quiet for a moment, in the deep silence of the mountain night. The darkness was complete, a safe cocoon in which to rest for another day’s work.

Harra tried to imagine the Imperial Residence in Vorbarr Sultana. The best she could come up with was a larger, fancier version of the Vorkosigan house in Hassadar, where the Countess gave a yearly reception for her scholarship students. In that high-ceilinged room, with its elaborate curtains and carved mantelpiece, Harra had sipped tea from a fine, fragile teacup as her district’s Countess inquired after her studies, and her discomfort had fallen away. She hadn’t felt that she belonged there, exactly; she couldn’t imagine calling a place like that home. It wasn’t her world, but all the same, she had as much right to be there as anyone. It was her district, her Count and Countess, and she knew she could stand up straight and speak truth to them.

Palaces and fancy teacups, that was the Emperor’s world, but now he had a memory of Silvy Vale to carry with him, the way she carried Vorkosigan House.

“He’s a man who really sees what he’s looking at. And now he’s seen Silvy Vale.”

Lem’s only response was a gentle snore. Harra adjusted her pillow and shifted into a more comfortable position, and slept.

**Author's Note:**

> If Emperor Gregor were here, he might request and require his loyal subjects to leave a comment. Admiral Naismith, on the other hand, would just make it an order, whether you were technically under his command or not, and hope that forward momentum would cause comments to occur.


End file.
